Seattle, 2000 - Ethan Mallory is counting down the days until he moves back to Toronto. He loves Seattle, but it's time to go home.

So it's just his luck that, with a month to go, he meets Rhett Solomon. Their chemistry is off the charts, and in bed, Rhett is everything Ethan's been craving. He's witty and charming outside the bedroom too.

Ethan's not about to change his plans for a man he's just met, but what could this become if they had a little more time? Is this just a sizzling hot last hurrah before he returns to Canada? Or is leaving Rhett behind a huge mistake?

Excerpt

Seattle, Washington

Spring 2000

The clock between the top shelf rows of bourbon and vodka said it was five minutes after nine. My watch said four after, but quibbling over a minute in either direction was pointless. Jay was supposed to be here at seven-thirty. No call. No show.

Bottom line? Whichever timepiece had it right, I was getting stood up.

I threw back the last of my screwdriver and pushed the glass away. Well, that was a wasted Friday night. Question was, what to do with what was left of it? Get wasted? Or hit up one of the clubs and see if I could find someone to fill Jay’s role for the night?

That thought nearly made me groan. I was sick of the club scene. That was why I’d decided to try this whole meeting-guys-online thing in the first place. Everyone said the Internet was crawling with psychos, but so far, my luck had been decent. Connecting with someone, chatting a little, making sure we both knew what we wanted—no commitment beyond maybe a morning after cup of coffee—and then meeting up in a public place. If there was chemistry, decent hygiene, and no symptoms of being a serial killer, going to whoever’s place was closest and f*cking each other into the mattress. Simple.

The online thing was a gamble, but it was so much more efficient and to the point than meeting someone in a club. Clubs were all right, but sometimes I wanted a sure thing. Something better than trying to exchange basic information like first names over loud music, hoping the other guy wasn’t thinking about soulmates and co-signed leases, and then having a frantic trial run in a men’s room or a vehicle before… well… going to whoever’s place was closest and f*cking each other into the mattress.

I was sometimes tempted to tell a guy to just meet me at my apartment. Skip all this bullshit and forget pretending we’d met up for anything we could do in polite company. But meeting people on the web was risky, and I was much more comfortable feeling someone out in person before I took them back to my place. It also helped to make sure there was some actual chemistry, and that there was attraction. If we didn’t click enough to make it work, bowing out of a bar was much easier than kicking someone out of my house.

But it was all a moot point if the guy didn’t even bother to show up.

I muttered a few curses to myself. I really needed to get out of here and find something—or someone—else to do. Since the efficient and to the point technique hadn’t worked out tonight, though, there was always the fallback. Seattle’s Capitol Hill had a number of gay clubs. Tedious, but it wasn’t like I had anything else going on tonight.

It was still early, though—seven or eight after nine, depending on which clock I asked—so there was no point in hustling out of here. Most places didn’t really wake up until after ten.

So I flagged down the bartender and asked for an iced tea, then folded my arms on the bar and gazed down at the dining room. This was one of those bar and grill places with a semi-swanky bar up on a mezzanine overlooking a linen tablecloth restaurant. The food smelled amazing as always. I’d heard they made a hell of a steak here. Small wonder this was the go-to place for those on the dating scene. Most nights, the clientele was pretty evenly split between straight and gay couples, and tonight was no exception.

I had no interest in a relationship right now—especially not when I was packing up and leaving Seattle in a few weeks—but admittedly, I was a little envious of some of these people. I’d been more or less alone since I’d moved here two years ago. Most of the time, I was happy with that as long as I was getting laid on a regular basis. Sometimes, though, I missed being with someone like that. Talking over dinner, maybe sharing a bottle of wine, or kicking back in front of a movie and maybe falling asleep before the credits started rolling.

Someday. Maybe. For the rest of my time in Seattle, though, my goal was someone to keep my bed warm at night and be gone before noon. Unless the sex was really hot. Then he could stick around long enough for us to f*ck a few more times. But definitely gone before noon the next day. Once a one night stand turned into two, things could get—

Oh, what have we here?

A face in the dining room caught my eye, and my drink almost slipped out of my hand. Whoa. I’d never seen him before, but I sure saw him now, and he was sure easy on the eyes. Built like he knew what a gym was. Neatly cut sandy blond hair. A dusting of five o’clock shadow along a sharp jaw line. Eyes that, even from across the restaurant, shrank my vocabulary to expletives and racy suggestions.

Apparently I was that horny tonight. Stood up, and now zeroing in on the most gorgeous face in the crowd. Except that was an exceptionally gorgeous face. The man I’d come here to meet didn’t hold a candle to this guy. Wow.

Pity he was here on what appeared to be a date with someone.

On the other hand, he looked like he was enjoying his date the way most people enjoyed standing in line at the DMV. He leaned against the back of his chair, as if to put as much distance between him and his date as he could. His expression alternated between neutral-edging-toward-boredom to outright uncomfortable.

The guy sitting across from him didn’t seem to notice or care. He gestured animatedly, sometimes with his highball, and whenever he laughed, his date squirmed a little more. At one point, the guy with his back to me shook his head, apparently laughing, and his date grimaced behind his own drink before downing most of the contents in one swallow.

Just before he lowered the glass, his eyes flicked up and met mine. I jerked my gaze away, cheeks burning as I realized I’d been staring. But then I glanced his way again. He stared right back. His forehead creased, and his face said nothing if not Help?

I raised my eyebrows. What do you want me to do?

He broke eye contact.

That was weird. I’d probably just imagined it, but I swore there’d been a momentary connection. A telepathic exchange, or at least an attempt at one. And the guy did seem pretty miserable. What exactly was a stranger going to do about it, though? I wasn’t even much of a wingman for my friends—what was I supposed to do here?

The guy said something to his date, gestured at his empty glass, and got up.

And dear God, he strode right across the dining room and up the stairs to the mezzanine where I was sitting. The bar was almost entirely deserted except for myself and a couple at the other end, so he could’ve stood anywhere, but he stopped right beside me. He flagged down the bartender and asked for a couple of beers. While he waited, he didn’t look at me.

“Waiting for someone?” he asked.

“No one who’s going to show up, no.”

This time he glanced my way, arching an eyebrow.

I shrugged. “Everyone gets stood up sometimes, right?”

He laughed dryly. Before he could say anything, though, the bartender handed him his two drinks.

The guy paid, but didn’t collect his drinks right away. Instead, he asked for a pen, then wrote something on the back of a coaster and slid it toward me. Without a word or even another glance, he took his drinks and headed back down to the dining room.

I turned over the coaster. On it, there was a phone number, and below that:

If you call this # in 2 min, I’ll buy you a drink @ After Hourz.

My heart skipped. I glanced his way again. He was back at his table, casually sipping his drink and listening to whatever his date had to say. His eyes flicked toward me, but his expression offered nothing.

I had almost no signal in the bar, so I paid my small tab and stepped outside. I was getting low on minutes, but curiosity trumped any concern I had about overage fees, so I entered the number and hit Send.

After two rings, he answered. “This is Rhett.”

“Well,” I chuckled. “Now I know your name.”

“Sh*t, are you serious?” He paused and exhaled. “And you couldn’t call—fine. Fine.”

I suppressed a laugh. God knew what story he was going to feed his date, but he deserved an Oscar for sounding legitimately annoyed and concerned.

He went on, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks.”

And then he hung up.

I stared at my phone for a moment. This definitely wasn’t how I’d expected my evening to play out, and where it went from here, I had no idea. But meeting up with a stranger who I’d just bailed out of a bad date seemed like a better direction than moping about my own failed date before searching for some anonymous sex at a club. It was a more interesting turn of events, that was for sure.

With no idea what to expect, I walked over to After Hourz, sat down at the bar, and waited.

Carra's Review

After reading the book to which this is a prequel, The Distance Between Us, I was definitely interested in seeing how Ethan and Rhett had come to be in the first place. Since I became perturbed with Ethan in Distance, I was hoping to see a better side to him when he and Rhett first started out. I’m happy to say that was the case, and while that leaves me a bit more aggravated with him for Distance, here in Before There Were Three I thought his character was much more likable.

I loved the way Ethan and Rhett met in this book. It’s a strong meet-cute, and immediately drew me in to their story since they quickly hit it off. One thing that’s certainly not lacking in this book is their physical connection. They connect quickly, and over…and over…and over…and just for kicks, over again. There is no doubt that they are sexually compatible, with their physical chemistry almost a living, breathing entity in itself. So much so that it almost threatens to take over the story until a bit past the midpoint of the book when the emotional aspect of their connection begins to make itself known.

With as strong of a connection as these two form, it does make me wonder exactly how they could have gotten to the point they ended up at in Distance—though that’s a pondering for that book’s review. And while Ethan seemed in a much better place in this prequel, the first half of the story still made him seem like he was mostly in it for fun (which is what the two of them intended at first), and was kind of emotionally detached in the beginning.

The story clearly shows how Ethan and Rhett’s relationship slowly evolves from hookup to friends with benefits to more, with a strong emphasis on the physical side of their relationship prevalent throughout the entire book. It’s a good look at how their relationship came to be, though as strong as their connection is here it still leaves me puzzled how things could go so crazily sideways in Distance. 4 stars for the story, and a strong 18+ warning for adult language and quite a bit of explicit, crazy hot sexual content.

The narration: I always enjoy Charlie David’s narration; his smooth, deep voice is always a pleasure to listen to, and he keeps things on an even pace throughout the book. While there’s not a broad delineation in voices between the characters, it’s still easy to understand who is speaking since the story is told only from Ethan’s point of view. He definitely brought the story to life, and sure as heck gave the numerous physical scenes a VERY realistic touch. 4 stars for the narration.

About The Author

L.A. Witt is an abnormal M/M romance writer who has finally been released from the purgatorial corn maze of Omaha, Nebraska, and now spends her time on the southwestern coast of Spain. In between wondering how she didn't lose her mind in Omaha, she explores the country with her husband, several clairvoyant hamsters, and an ever-growing herd of rabid plot bunnies. She also has substantially more time on her hands these days, as she has recruited a small army of mercenaries to search South America for her nemesis, romance author Lauren Gallagher, but don't tell Lauren. And definitely don't tell Lori A. Witt or Ann Gallagher. Neither of those twits can keep their mouths shut...

Micah Lennox left Whisper Ridge after promising the man he loved that he would never return. But the only way he knows to keep his pregnant sister and nephew safe is to go home. Spending winter in Wyoming opens too many old wounds, but he's on the run from justice which can't be far behind, and this is his last chance at redemption.

After a hostage situation leaves Doctor Daniel Sheridan struggling with PTSD, he returns to Whisper Ridge. Joining his dad in family practice is a balm to soothe his exhausted soul, and somehow, he finds a peace he can live with. That is until he meets Micah in a frozen graveyard, and the years of anger and feelings of betrayal boiling inside him, erupt.

Two broken men fight and scratch for their lives and that of their families, and somehow, in the middle of it all, they find each other.

Is it possible that love can be rekindled and become a forever to believe in?

Excerpt

Chapter 1

2009, Daniel

A figure stood beside Isaac’s grave and I knew immediately who it was.

There was no marker yet for the boy who had died two weeks ago and who would forever be nineteen. Flowers marked his resting place, but snow had long since covered them and softened the raised earth so it wasn’t as obvious against the gravestones around the figure. A car accident had taken Isaac, killed him on impact, and his family grieved for a future that would never be realized.

I’d just left my brother, Chris, in the hospital, broken beyond repair in the same accident. At least we had the possibility of a future with him, even though the road to recovery would be hard. He was still in a medically induced coma, not yet awake to know he’d lost his leg, or that fire had marked his face. But he would wake up. They told us he’d live.

No one had asked me where I was going when I’d left Chris’ room, each of us lost in various stages of shock and grief, and we all dealt with what had happened in our own way. I’d needed to connect with Isaac. Needed the peace to balance the loss and guilt that ate away inside me.

Isaac dead on impact, Chris’ future destroyed, and in front of me, hunched over Isaac’s last resting place, was the man responsible for it all.

The man who left my bed in the dead of night to become a murderer.

Micah.

He was huddled into his coat, the January ice bitter by the buried, hands forced into his pockets, and his hood pulled around his face. Micah must have heard me, because he glanced my way, startled, grief written on his face. And then his expression changed.

He stepped toward me, his expression full of something like hope.

“Daniel?” he said. “Is Chris okay? No one will let me see him.”

He stopped walking when I didn’t reach out for him and looked at me uncertainly.

“His leg is gone, down from his knee,” I explained dispassionately, and then touched my face, “and his burns are bad, the left side of his face from his temple to his chin.”

“Sh*t. Sh*t.” Micah bent at the waist, as if he couldn’t breathe, and he was crying.

“How is it you don’t have a mark on you?” I asked, still eerily calm, and utterly focused.

He took his hand from his pocket, and pulled up his sleeve, exposing bandages. “I was burned,” he began. He dropped his hand when I didn’t comment, forced it back into his pocket, wincing as he did so.

I imagined the burn hurt a little, maybe even a lot, but he was there, as whole and real as when he’d left my bed on that terrible day.

In my mind I saw Chris in the hospital, the covers raised over the cage which protected his surgical site, then dipping lower where his ankle should have been. I saw a clear image of Isaac the day before he died, knocking for Chris and grinning at me as if he had the greatest secret to tell his best friend.

And here was Micah, telling me he had slight burns on his arm? The same man who’d told me in one breath that he loved me and then had stolen my car, driving it into a bridge and killing one boy, leaving another maimed and in a coma.

My fist flew, clenched aggression targeting Micah’s face, his cheekbone, and I heard a satisfying crunch. He staggered back a step, but he didn’t go down, and he didn’t take his hands from his pockets. I was too fast. I hit him again, blood flecking his face, dissipating into the icy air. He moved again, the force of my blows shoving him back.

Still, his hands remained in his pockets, and he was unnervingly quiet, taking my hits as if they were nothing at all. Another punch connected with his lip and split the skin, and this time he grunted in pain. He staggered backward toward the next grave and bent back over the stone marker with the force of that final blow. I stepped closer. I hit him again, connecting with his jaw, but the hit wasn’t hard. There was nothing to it; he didn’t move away.

“You took my car,” I yelled, right in his face.

“You said I could borrow it,” he pleaded.

I raised my hand to hit him again, but he winced, and closed his eyes, and I wanted him to look at me. “Open your damn eyes!”

He did, and he wouldn’t avert his gaze, naked grief in his expression.

“Daniel, please listen.”

“You’ve destroyed Chris’ life.”

“I know.”

“You need to leave Whisper Ridge, and never come back. I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want Chris to ever see you again. You understand?”

“I understand,” his tone low and broken.

“You will never come back here.” I shook him. He was smaller than me, thinner, lighter, and I shook him so hard his head snapped back. “Promise me!”

“I pr—promise,” he said through tears.

I was disgusted by him, hated him, wanted to kill him right there on Isaac’s grave.

“I hope they lock you up and throw away the f*cking key!” I was still shouting, and he didn’t move, just stared at me with those pale eyes, red and wet from crying. He wouldn’t stop crying. “Don’t f*cking stare at me!”

I shoved him one last time, and then before I could work out what the hell I was still doing there shouting at him, I pivoted and turned my back on him, and on Isaac’s grave, and the entire carnage.

RJ's goal is to write stories with a heart of romance, a troubled road to reach happiness, and most importantly, that hint of a happily ever after.

RJ Scott is the bestselling author of over one hundred romance books. She writes emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, millionaire, princes, and the men who get mixed up in their lives. RJ is known for writing books that always end with a happy ever after. She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn't with family either reading or writing.

The last time she had a week's break from writing she didn't like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a bottle of wine she couldn't defeat.

The Unforgettable Duet Excerpt

“IT’S MONDAY, AND you know what that means,” Mike said as he cut off Big Bertha’s engine and looked over at me expectantly.

I patted my pants pocket to make sure I’d shoved my wallet inside before we’d headed out this morning, and when I felt the outline of the trifold, I nodded. “Yep. Extra-bold coffee comin’ up.” As I popped open the passenger-side door, Mike’s hand landed firmly on my arm, halting me before I could get out of the ambulance, and I looked back at him over my shoulder.

“It means don’t be a chickensh*t, Ollie, that’s what it means.”

Lifting my eyebrows, I glanced around, searching for whoever it was Mike thought he was talking to, and when he read my quizzical expression, he snorted.

“Yeah, that means you,” he said.

“You callin’ me out?”

“Damn right I am.”

I shook my head. “I’m not a chickensh*t, and you know it.”

Mike shrugged and let go of my arm. “Fine. Prove it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can. You just won’t.”

Yeah, whatever, he had me there. Something always held me back from saying much more than hello to the guy in the fitted chinos and starched collared shirt and tie that I saw most mornings in the coffee aisle at Joe’s Grab ’N Go, and Mike never could resist an opportunity to rib me for it. I never should’ve told him about my crush in the first damn place, but being my best friend as well as my work partner meant we tended to overshare in the time between calls.

“He’s straight, Mike. Leave it alone, huh?”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

I picked up a container of mints and shook a couple into my mouth before tossing it back in the console. “Trust me. I know.”

“You ask him since the last time I saw you?”

Rolling my eyes, I ignored his question and pushed open my door. “You want that coffee or not?”

“Mhmm. The date for you, too.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, slamming the door before he could make any other requests. I could hear him chuckling behind me as he got out to pump the gas. And out of the corner of my eye, a flash of red pulling into a parking spot had my heart beating a bit faster. It was ridiculous that I’d even wonder for a second if I’d see him, since hardly a weekday had gone by in four months when I hadn’t. But that flutter of anticipation still sent a thrill through me, the handful of minutes seeing him every morning the highlight of my day.

That’s it. I need to get my damn life back. Working all these overtime shifts to pick up some extra cash over the holidays—and giving the guys with families some time off—had sent my extracurricular activities into a tailspin. If I didn’t get laid soon, I’d crash and burn. Or, worse, hit on the straight guy.

“Hey, Ollie,” Mike called out, and I paused with my hand on the door to the Grab ’N Go before moving aside to let the woman behind me pass through. When I turned around, a mischievous grin played on his lips as he inserted the gas pump into Big Bertha’s tank and began to hip-thrust.
Oh for the love of—

“And while you’re at it, maybe grab me one of those apple fritters, would ya? And a soda for later?”

So much for New Year’s resolutions, I thought. That had lasted less than a week. Not that I could blame him when it came to the tempting basket of freshly baked goods that sat by Joe’s register every morning—even I had a hard time passing on those. Still, Mike had wanted to lose the twenty pounds that had crept up since Halloween and made me swear I’d keep him in check.

“You sure you wanna do that?” I asked.

Mike looked pointedly over at the red Mazda3 and his smile grew. “Life’s too short to pass on the good stuff, wouldn’t you say?”

That f*cker. I shook my head and shot a glare his way, and then I went inside, determined now to buy out the apple fritters and personally stuff ’em down his meddling throat.

“Morning, Oliver,” Joe greeted me from behind the counter where he was ringing up a customer, and I smiled his way before grabbing a handheld basket and heading down the aisle for Mike’s Sprite. I took the third bottle from the front—yeah, I never took the first one of anything—and laid it in the basket as the freezer door slapped shut behind me.

I kept a tight grip on the handle as I took my time walking toward the far aisle, the anticipation building in my gut. Finally, I rounded the corner, and just as he was every day, Bluebird stood in front of the coffee station, refillable mug in hand and somehow looking more gorgeous than I remembered. My memory never did him justice.

I didn’t move as he placed his mug beneath the machine’s spout and hit a button, and I knew exactly what he’d get, the same as every morning: a latte with light foam and three sugars, two creamers.

Today he was dressed in a pair of black slacks, with a white button-down shirt and a midnight-blue tie—always so well put together, from his stylishly tousled dark brown hair, so dark it was almost black, down to his black loafers. A couple of days of stubble covered his usual freshly shaven jaw, and I imagined how it’d feel under my hands as I took either side of his face and pulled him toward mine—

“Dammit!”

Bluebird’s curse shook me out of my stupor as my feet managed to move again, and as I got closer, I saw that the usual brown liquid coming out of the machine was a cloudy white instead.

He let out a frustrated sigh. “Hey, Joe,” he called out to the owner. “Latte machine’s down.”

“Again?” Joe scratched his jaw and then said, “Sorry about that, Reid. I’ll get someone out to fix it today.”

“No problem,” Reid replied, dumping out the hot water from his mug into the tray, and hello, I finally had a name to go with the face: Reid. How was it I’d gone so long without knowing?

I pulled out a couple of large disposable cups from the rack and reached for the coffee pot at the same time as Reid, our fingers brushing each other ever so slightly before we both jerked back. His touch shot through me like an electric jolt to my heart, and the surprise that lit his eyes told me I wasn’t the only one affected.

“Sorry,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Damn static.”
That wasn’t static, I thought, but I wasn’t about to enlighten him, so instead I gestured to the almost empty coffee pot. “No problem. Go for it.”

“Oh…uh…” He glanced at how little was left and shook his head. “That’s okay. You were first.”

“Nah, go ahead. Something tells me you need it more than I do.”

“You sure?” Reid asked, his forehead creased like he didn’t want to impose, but I wouldn’t have minded him taking the last of the coffee every day, so long as those dark chocolate eyes of his stayed on me.

“I insist,” I said, and then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “Besides, I know where Joe keeps the spares. I’ll just make another pot.”

A grateful smile lifted his lips. “Thanks.” Then he poured himself a full mug of coffee and scratched his jaw as he said, “Ever have one of those mornings?”

“All the time.”

Reid looked up at me, and then his eyes shifted down to my name and title patched in on my uniform. Oliver McFadden. Paramedic. “Yeah, of course you do. Paramedic, huh? I don’t know how you do it.”

“Helps that we can filter caffeine through IVs for a quicker hit on bad days.”

He laughed as he ripped open three sugar packets and dumped them into his drink. “I think I’m in the wrong field.”

“What is it you do?”

“I teach music education at Castle Hill.”

“Middle schoolers?” I whistled. “I think I’ll stick with my job.”

“I wouldn’t blame you some days. They’re mostly a good group, but man, there’s a few whose mission is to run off the new teachers.”

“And you’re one of the new ones?”

“Four months running.” He tossed the empty packets into the trash and then held his hand out to me. “I’m Reid, by the way.”

I stared at his hand for a couple of heartbeats before taking it in mine. His long fingers were cool to the touch, unlike my perpetually hot ones. It could be negative fifty outside, and my hands would still be warm. “Ollie,” I said, and then shook my head slightly. “Well, Oliver, but everyone calls me Ollie.”

“Mom was a big fan of Laurel and Hardy. I’m just glad she didn’t go with Stan.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized that was an unnecessary reference because he probably had no idea who the hell Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy were, but Reid surprised the hell out of me by laughing.

“Your mom has good taste. I used to watch their stuff at my nan’s,” he said, and then let go of my hand.

I missed the contact immediately.

Before I could respond, Joe’s gnarled fingers clamped down on my arm as he hobbled in between us and hit the side of the latte machine with his cane.

“I don’t think it’ll respond to a beat-down, Joe,” Reid said, as he stirred two creamers into his coffee.

“Worked once before. By George, I’ll do it again.”

As Joe whacked at the machine, Reid shook his head at the stubborn man. Then he capped his mug and smiled at me. “Thanks again, Ollie. I owe you one.”

“Anytime,” I said, and meant it. “Hope your morning improves.”

“I’m counting on it. Bye, Joe. I’ll leave the money on the counter.”

Joe grumbled what sounded like a goodbye and kept fiddling with the latte machine as I rinsed out the coffee pot and started up a fresh brew.

Two steaming mugs and a bag full of apple fritters later and I was climbing back into Big Bertha, still reeling from my run-in with Reid. It was so unlike me to moon over a guy, for f*ck’s sake, but there was something about him that had caught my attention from day one and never let go. Today’s encounter had only served to pique my curiosity. I’d always thought him older, maybe mid- to late twenties, but he said he’d only been at Castle Hill for four months. Maybe that meant he was fresh out of college? Or could be he’d relocated from somewhere. Definitely somewhere still in the South, since he seemed to have the manner of someone who’d grown up with parents who drilled in the Yes, sirs and No, thank you, ma’ams so telling of this part of the country, though his accent didn’t betray much of a twang.

“That has got to be the biggest, dumbest grin I’ve ever seen on your ugly mug,” Mike said, staring at me like I’d grown two heads. “Did you finally do it? Did you ask him out?”

I tossed the bag of fritters and soda into Mike’s lap. “Feel free to choke on those.”

“Ahh, I’m gonna take that as a yes, then. He shoot you down?”

After setting the coffees in the console, I fastened my seatbelt and waited for Mike to get the hint we needed to get moving.

“The hell, man?” he said. “You gonna leave me hangin’?”

I arched my brow in his direction, and when I didn’t say anything, he gave a grunt and started up the rig.

“One of these days, Ollie,” he grumbled, pulling out of the gas station. “You know all my personal sh*t. See if I spill my guts anymore.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do if you couldn’t talk about Deb twenty-four seven.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I scored a good one. Just letting everyone know what they’re missing out on.” As Mike slowed down behind traffic, he glanced over at me and waggled his black eyebrows.

“Make sure to do us a favor and hand out barf bags the next time you get started.” I nodded at the bag of pastries in his lap. “And don’t tell Deb I’m doin’ a horrible job of keeping you accountable.”

“Nah, she likes my love handles.”

“Bullsh*t.”

He laughed and tore into the bag of fritters with one hand, while keeping his other on the wheel. When he’d made me swear last week that I’d keep him on track while he “cut the crap,” I’d thought he was nuts. Even with an extra twenty pounds on his strong six-foot build, Mike was as attractive as ever. Black, close-cropped curls, a permanent tan, and dimples that only seemed to have deepened the past few months.

The hot ones are always straight. At least they are in Floyd Hills, Georgia, I thought, my mind drifting back to the man I always made sure to run into during the workweek. And yeah, I got that straight vibe from Reid too, though even he couldn’t deny the spark that had ignited when our hands had brushed against each other. That wasn’t enough to hang any hope on, though, much as I wanted to.

“His name’s Reid,” I said, breaking up the quiet in the cab, and when Mike’s head jerked in my direction, a fritter half shoved in his mouth, I was unable to keep the smirk off my face anymore. “Teaches music at the middle school.”

As I casually sipped my coffee, Mike’s jaw practically hit the ground. “No sh*t.” A horn sounded from behind us, and Mike stepped on the gas, shaking his head. “About damn time. What else did you talk about?”

“Nothing. Joe came over to give the coffee machine a concussion, and that was the end of that.”

“Dammit, Joe. Way to c*ck-block.”

“Nah, he didn’t know.”

“Well, you have an opening now,” Mike said, winking at me. “And that was only a pun if you want it to be.”

“Oh, Jesus. I’ve done it now.”

“What?”

“Created a monster who uses puns against me.”

Mike laughed as I flipped on the radio to drown out any other comments his sugar high wanted to lob out, but when Bing Crosby began to croon about a winter wonderland, Mike groaned and jabbed at the buttons to change the channel.

“I can’t believe they’re still blasting Christmas music in January. Didn’t they get the memo that Santa Claus already came to town, and all he brought me was a damn snow blower? When the hell am I gonna use a snow blower around here? I think my in-laws called in a favor.”

Chuckling, I brought my coffee up to my lips and blew softly, while Mike continued to flip through the stations until a country song began to play. He started to sing along, something about naming babies and dogs, which would normally have me eye-rolling him to death. But since his mouth was now otherwise occupied and he wasn’t digging for more information out of me, I didn’t bother putting up a fight to change the channel. Let him belt out “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” for all I cared. Until a call came in, my mind would be preoccupied by…other things.

A quick tone alert came through the radio, and I punched the music off as a call came through from dispatch.

“Unit 110, please respond Code 3 to the intersection of Mercer and Thomas on a multi-vehicle accident with injuries. Fire responding for possible extrication.”

I picked up the receiver. “Ten-four, Unit 110 en route. ETA less than two minutes,” I said, as Mike dropped the plastic bag on the ground at my feet and flipped on the lights and siren.

“Not how I’d want my day starting out,” he said, cutting through an intersection to make a left on Mercer.

“Saddle up,” I said. “I have a feeling it’s gonna be a long one.”

Traffic going east was already beginning to back up, the roads congested at the height of morning rush hour. Now with the accident up ahead and the cars unable to move to the side, Mike had to pull us into the suicide lane to get by. From the opposite direction, a backup unit, along with two police cars and a fire truck, veered toward the intersection, though it looked like we’d get there first.

I could see the smoke rising up ahead, and as we got closer, it seemed to be coming from beneath the hood of a black four-by-four truck that had smashed into a—

“Oh sh*t… Ollie…” Mike’s voice trailed off as we both caught sight of the crushed passenger side of the car that had been T-boned. The crumpled car had been no match for the bigger vehicle; it looked like they’d skidded into the middle of the intersection during impact. The car’s hood punched up at an awkward angle with the truck half inside, and broken glass littered the road.

I’d seen the sight so many times before, but never had the breath left my lungs in a rush, never had a faint ringing sound filled my ears, and never had a wild sense of panic seized my chest like it did right then.

Because the mangled car, the one I was responding to, was none other than Reid’s bright red Mazda3.

Ollie & Reid’s journey continues in book two, Remember Me When.

Read Remember Me When Today!

Start the Series Today!

Forget Me Not

If you haven’t already read the first book of this duet, Forget Me Not, you may want to wait to read my review of Remember Me When so you stay away from any spoilers for the first book. This is a duet, and you absolutely should not read Remember until you’ve read Forget. Oh, and when you do? Keep your tissues handy. You’ll probably need them once you get here to book two as well.

After the emotional heart-snatching the author did to me the first time around, I was expecting this second book to do a bit more of the same before patching my heart up again. While it wasn’t as devastating as the first time around, here in book two it was more of a constant gnawing as poor Ollie had to push on not knowing if Reid would ever remember him and the incredible bond they forged before book one ended. It was heartbreaking for Ollie, but Reid had his own niggles in the back of his mind that something was missing.

Reid was a bit darker here, which was more than understandable given the fact that he was thrust back into his old life—one that wasn’t quite satisfying to begin with—and now the new memories he had made after the accident were gone…so kind of the opposite situation he was in before the surgery at the end of book one. I can’t imagine how frustrated he felt, and when he would lash out at Ollie, my heart broke for both of them even more.

In the end, what this story shows us is that true love…people connected on a soul-deep level…will always find a way back. It’s falling in love all over again, and seeing the things in someone that make it undeniable that they are the one you belong with, no matter how life tries to tear you apart.

4.5 stars for Remember Me When, and this duet gets one of my highest recommendations. Since this story focuses more on Reid rediscovering himself, there’s not as much physical intimacy, but the adult language and sexual content that is present does still make this book one for readers 18+.

About Brooke

Brooke Blaine is a USA Today Bestselling Author of contemporary romance that ranges from comedy to suspense to erotic. The latter has scarred her conservative Southern family for life, bless their hearts.

If you’d like to get in touch with her, she’s easy to find - just keep an ear out for the Rick Astley ringtone that’s dominated her cell phone for years. Or you can reach her at www.BrookeBlaine.com.

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